The Orphan
by wolfshalom
Summary: Sherlock and John suddenly find themselves caring for a young orphaned girl and (later) will be shocked to find out just who her parents are and just how far a father will go to be in possession of his child and. Some fluff, Sherlock/John friendship, definite Sherlolly There is NO: smut, kink, slash, or lemon.
1. Chapter 1

**Working on my second fanfiction. Let's how this goes then; I'm hoping it goes pretty well, but we'll see. I guess. Please review and tell me how it is. I'll try to update us soon and as much as possible.**

**Chapter 1**

It's raining outside. Lightning screams as it slams into the wet earth, shaking the city of London upon impact. Sherlock stares out the window of his flat, hoping for a distraction from the boredom rain always brings, but so far he's had no such luck. With a sigh, he flops on the crouch and glares at the ceiling. John shakes his head and chuckles softly at his friend's agony.

"You find this amusing?" Sherlock growls as he turns his head to scowl at his friend.

"Amusing? Nah, mate, I found it humorous."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks back to the roof, hoping that some desperate fool would choose to whether the storm and slip out to give him an entertaining case, but, alas, it was not meant to be.

"Well, hello, there dearie," Mrs. Hudson says softly, as she stands next to her trash bins to take out her rubbish, staring down at the small shaking form before her. "Where are your parents?" She looks around, her aged eyes taking in the child's torn and dirtied clothes, her sad hazel eyes, and soaked brown hair. The woman sighs, "Well, come on. Can't just leave you out here, can I, dear?" She steps aside, allowing the girl inside. Immediately, Mrs. Hudson takes her by the hand and pulls her gently into her room to dry her off and get her into some clean clothes, all the while cooing gently and smiling at the young girl who gives her a weak smile in return.

Finally, dried and dressed in a large t-shirt, Mrs. Hudson pulls her into the kitchen by the hand to feed her some chicken soup.

"Hello, John. Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson says as she stands in their doorway.

"Is something the matter, Mrs. Hudson?" John asks. Sherlock lifts his head hopefully and then drops it back down into the pillow with an irritated huff when she says that everything is fine.

"But," She adds, "I think you have a visitor."

"A visitor? What do you mean a visitor?" Sherlock jumps to his feet, striding quickly towards the kind old woman, "Is it a client?"

"No, dear—it's a child. And my is she thin!" He freezes in surprise. _Really, a child? That's can't be right, can it? Why would a child bother coming here—and during a storm, at all times?_

The girl, hiding behind the elderly woman, nervously pokes her head out from behind her and looks about fearfully. "I found her outside about a half hour ago, huddled by my bins to escape the rain. I don't know what to do with her: figured you could find out where her parents where since you're the detective, Sherlock. She may have gotten lost or—"

"No, the girl's clearly an orphan. Parents probably died years ago, leaving her on the streets to fend for herself," Sherlock states dispassionately as his cold, analytical, blue eyes settle on her sad hazel ones for a minute before he strode back to the sofa and plopped unceremoniously down upon the cushions.

John frowns and looks at the girl, "So, now what?"

"Well, I was hoping she could stay here for the night, actually." The girl looks up at Mrs. Hudson then, her eyebrows crinkled with silent surprise, "There's no need calling the police station, it'll take them ages to get here, with the storm and all."

"It's fine if she stays." John says coaxing Sherlock off the couch and into a chair, "She can sleep on the sofa."

"Thank you, dear." She smiles at the girl, "Goodnight."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

That night, without ever discussing the matter, Sherlock and John alternated every other hour, checking on their young guest, who slumbers fitfully under a mountain of blankets on the sofa. Twice she awakens during the night and John gets her something to eat, which she wolfs down ravenously as though afraid that he would change his mind at any moment and rip the morals from her delicate white hands. He watches her with sorrow glistening in his green eyes. What had this poor kid been through to act like this? To behave as if every meal may become her last?

In the morning, despite last night's plans, they do not phone Lestrade. Sherlock, stubborn as ever, refuses to have 'those bumbling imbeciles' figure out where she is from before he can. So, for the time being, she stays in 221B. Mrs. Hudson, delighted at having the child stay, dutifully watches her (and spoils her with lots of hugs and sugar cookies) while the men are away during the day solving the cases, and brings her back to their flat upon their return at night, halfheartedly complaining about her being their landlady, _not _their babysitter, and the girl, shyly, stares at the floor happy to be loved, and dry, and fed after struggling for so long to merely survive the cruel streets of England, neglected, exposed to the weather, and forever famished.

During the time being, Sherlock tries in vain to get her to speak of her family and the circumstances that got her into the position she was in, but she never said a word, her hazel eyes glistening with silent tears before John would usher her away, his arm draped over her shaking shoulders as he comforted her and glared at Sherlock, who merely shrugged dispassionately in response.

But, John knew he cared for the girl. He would awaken at night to go check on the girl and often see, from the comfort of the shadows, Sherlock sitting on the floor beside the sofa singing softly to her to sooth away the nightmares that often woke her up or telling her a fairy tale of some sort, buried deep into the recesses of Sherlock's mind palace, that Sherlock's mother must have told him once when he was young. And the girl would look at him, with tears glistening on her cheeks, her hazel eyes large and round with wonder, as she slowly fell back into unconsciousness.

"So," John asks her on her fourth day staying with them, "What is your name?" He settles down next to her at the table and rests his head on his right hand as he waits patiently for an answer he's sure she won't give.

For a while, as is normal with her, she says nothing, and he almost gives up when, finally, a small voice whispers, "Hope."

He blinks in surprise and then his face breaks into a wide grin. Finally, after days of silence, she has spoken, "Well, Hope, my name is John Watson."

Sherlock walks into the room and pauses when he sees the two of them laughing and rolls his eyes. Ordinary people are so strange sometimes. He stretches lightly, catlike, as his spine bends backwards and he reaches toward the ceiling before quickly striding over and wrapping his scarf around his neck and turning his coat color up.

"Something the matter?" John speaks up, eyebrows creased in worry.

"No, John, it's Christmas! He's back! Isn't it wonderful?" Sherlock shouts, hurriedly tugging his shoes on as he stumbles towards the door.

"Who?"

"Moriarty!" His voice echoes towards him as the front door slams. John doesn't see Hope flinch at the name, so preoccupied as he was with keeping up with his friend as Sherlock runs quickly through the narrow cobblestone streets of London.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Within four hours, Scotland Yard has found four people (all men, with curly dark hair, pale skin, and thin physiques) dead, all with the same message spray painted above their heads: "GET SHERLOCK!" And so, that is just what Lestrade does, as he leads the thin man from scene to crime scene and watches as Sherlock looks over each one with a keen eye while John watches on silently.

"So?" Lestrade says finally, "What've ya got?". Sherlock, staring at the blood splatter on the wall directly in front of him, does not seem to hear him.

"Hello, Earth to, psychopath," Anderson snaps as he glares at Sherlock. "You still there?"

"Anderson!" Sherlock snaps out of reverie, "I'm not psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath: do your research you blubbering—!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells, momentarily cutting him off. Sherlock's blue eyes blaze furiously as he glares at the detective before quickly losing all traces of all emotion and once again reclaiming his calm and collective exterior.

"Yes?" His voice now bored, rather than angry.

"What've ya got?" Lestrade repeats, his patience quickly running thin.

Sherlock smirks at the man's obvious aggravation: "Four men, all targeted to send a message. They were not killed at the crime scenes but rather placed there, like props, with the blood being distributed as needed on the walls and floors," he taps his chest, "The lacerations on their torsos are clean, signaling that they were not killed by a knife, as you no doubt would have originally assumed, but were actually made after death. The cause of death is definitely strangulation, as is evident by the bruising on the throat and neck…"

Lestrade shakes his head in awe. How does this man do it? What would take hours or years for his team to figure out or calculate is uncovered by Sherlock in mere moments: amazing!

"Wait…" Lestrade says suddenly, "You said there was a message?"

"Yes, the message is simple, detective. Surely you can figure it out?" His voice drips sarcastically, making Lestrade frown and cross his arms in front of his chess.

"Well…" Lestrade murmurs as he rocks self consciously from his heel to his toe. Hearing a muffled snicker he spins around to glare at John. John tries quickly to hide his smile from the baffled detective and instead turns and pretends to examine the body before him on the floor, knowing that with his articulateness Sherlock would not have missed a single detail that he, John, could possibly hope to find.

Sherlock sighs and continue speaking in a bored and slightly disappointed tone, "The message is for me, Lestrade. It simply says that Moriarty is back and that our little game will, once again, initiate, and this time, he plans for it end in my demise."

"Oh." The man looks at the dark haired consulting detective in surprise as his words slowly sink in, "Then we'll put you under police security and…" He stops, catching the annoyed look Sherlock is giving him.

"Detective, the man can go anywhere he pleases when he pleases. Do you honestly believe a few of 'Scotland Yard's finest'," he smiles ruefully, "will keep him out?"

Silence.

"No." Lestrade finally admits, "No, you're right…"

"Goodnight, Lestrade." With that, Sherlock hails a cab and both he, and a very pale John, ride homewards.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, sorry guys. I was unaware that this chapter was copied strangely from my computer and into this sight and turned into a giant computer code: but don't fret, it's fixed now. I'll go through and make sure the other chapters copied over correctly and try to fix any glitches that may have occurred. Thank you Awesomehailey2000 for the spell check assistance-you go girl.**

**Chapter 4**

**The next day**

John takes Hope out to get some new clothes and a few toys while Sherlock paces furiously back and forth in the apartment, his head pounding with the unsolved revelation as to why Moriarty has decided to haunt the unsuspecting city of London once again. Three hours later, John, and a very enthusiastic Hope, return from the store, bags of clothes and toys dangling from John's arms while Hope skips lightly inside the flat carrying deli sandwiches for them all to share. The three eat their food in comfortable silence. Little did they know, something was about to go horribly, horribly wrong.

"So," Sherlock motions to the bags, "It went well then? No sign of our…mutual 'friend'?""Yep, everything went okay: no sign of him. So far, so good I would think, eh, Sherlock?"

"No, no it's quiet. That's what bothers me. The madman returns and only kills four people? And what else, hiding his face? No, something is brewing and I can smell it!"  
"John swallows, a lump forming in his throat. He was right, something was definitely off. It was the calm before the storm: the spark before the explosion, but how long would they have to wait? Their tele (TV) cuts on unexpectedly, a telltale soft voice sending chills up their spines.

"Oh, Sherlock, how right you are. I'll be seeing soon."  
Mrs. Hudson screams downstairs as the wooden door is violently kicked in and men in dark suits storm upstairs towards the flat and its petrified inhabitants. John leaps for his pistol in the other room and realizes, too late, that he would never make it there in time as a hand closes down upon his shoulder a needle pricks his neck. The last thing he is aware before falling into blissful unconsciousness is Hope screaming, her eyes wide with horror, as Sherlock jumps instinctively between her and the goons as they take him down as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock comes to consciousness slowly. His muscles ache from laying still and in such an awkward position for an extended period of time. He blinks, his eyelids feeling as if they were made of cement as he tries to take in his surroundings: a dark cement cell, illuminated by a single flickering bulb on the ceiling, no windows, a solid metal door with a small doggie door at the bottom, most likely to put food and water into his new dirtied home. Slowly, he forces himself to sit up and slowly entangle his limbs from the pretzel-like-formation they were forced into when he was thrown unceremoniously into the cell.

Well, on the upside, he now longer has to wait for Moriarty to torture him; on the downside, he has no idea where John is or what horrors they are inflicting upon his friend or their young guest. Standing slowly, he pacing gingerly from one wall to the next in an attempt to work the dull throbs from his body: so far, no good. For hours, he paces as he tries to work out his escape before finally, bored and exhausted, he leans against the cold cement wall and lowers himself to the ground.

For hours he sits, waiting for someone to come and to explain why he has been taken captive. Knowing Moriarty, there was an angle (there always was) or a puzzle he could solve to win his freedom, but why was it taking _so long? _Why bother with the wait: just to get to the point!

But Moriarty didn't. Instead, he sat, alone in the dark, cold, and damp cell waiting for rescue or for the torment the madman undoubtedly had planned for him. Food arrived, when he did not know. It was a simple meal. A sandwich: bread, cheese, and chicken, a small bag of salted potato chips, a small opened can of peaches, and two bottles of water: unflavored. He eats hungrily and huddles against the back corner as he stares once more about the cell, and, once more, sees nothing that will help him to escape. Finally, with a dejected sigh, he sits back and does exactly what Moriarty wants him to do.

He waits.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Good afternoon, Ms. Hooper." Mycroft strides purposely into the lab Molly is working in. She pauses, her hands freezing in their task to put away the equipment, "Please," he nods to her, "Continue." The petite woman swallows nervously and quickly does as he suggests. "Have a seat, Ms. Hooper." He motions to a metal stool in front of her before sitting on a table.

"Molly, please. Call me Molly. So, what bring you here…Mr. Holmes?" Again she swallows. What could she have done that could have possibly have warranted such a visit from the British government?

"I'm here to talk to you about Sherlock." His cold eyes lock onto hers for just a moment before she tears her gaze away to look nervously at her feet.

"Why is something the matter?" She looks back up at him and he smiles tightly, frustrated at the lack of information she could provide.

"It would seem my little brother has been kidnapped fourteen hours ago. As it is, I'm placing you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson under protective custody. You'll all be living in my cottage for the time being." He stands and turns to walk away.

"Why? He couldn't have been kidnapped could he?" Her heart lurches for to think of the man she loves in harm's way, "I mean…he's done this before, hasn't he? Disappeared for long lengths of time…?"

"There were signs of a definite struggle and…" he stops.

"And?"

"Children's clothing." He admits reluctantly.

"Children's clothing? But Sherlock doesn't have a child, nor John for that matter…is it a clue, maybe? From the kidnappers as to where to look?"

He shakes his head, "I do not know. Some of my men will escort you to your home where you'll pack the necessities, and then drive you to the cottage. Is that understood?" She nods and he smiles tightly, he face twitching with the effort. "Well, good day, Ms. …sorry, 'Molly'," He walks away, leaving her staring after him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The door creaks open and sharp footsteps echo loudly in the tiny cell. Sherlock looks up from his knees to see Jim Moriarty, a melting pot of insanity and evil, smiling down at him like a Cheshire cat.

"Hello, Sherlock." He says silkily, his voice a low purr, "It's always nice to see you." He yawns, "Well, my people will see to it that you're ready. We'll eat breakfast in a few hours," He cracks another venomous smile, "I'm sure you've got questions."

Stubbornly, Sherlock says nothing.

He stares coolly up at the man, his face void of any emotion.

Moriarty sighs; he is quickly growing bored of this little game, but, no worry. Things'll be getting interesting again soon enough. "I'll leave you to it, Sherlock. And, by the way, I wouldn't advice against any escape attempts: dear Watson won't fare so well if a such an attempt is made, I'm afraid, but, it's your choice," He smiles when he sees Sherlock flinch at the implication that his friend would be injured if he didn't play along and he turns to speak to some on the other side of the cell door who is lurking just out of sight for Sherlock to see, "Not too many bruises, Sebastian." He says as the space once occupying his malicious presence is replaced by five body guards who roughly drag Sherlock to his feet and escort him to a room with an attached bathroom with a shower and extensive wardrobe.

Sherlock sighs in annoyance once the last guard leaves to take up his post outside the bedroom door. Rolling his eyes, he picks out a new outfit and washes himself quickly in the shower before slipping his new outfit on: a black suit tailored to fit him perfectly, a deep navy blue undershirt, shiny black shoes, and navy blue socks. He shrugs into his coat and hangs his scarf lightly across his shoulder before inspecting himself in the mirror. He's a litter paler than usual and has a bright red dot on his neck from the sedative they injected into him, but there are no obvious bruising or injuries.

All in all, he seemed to be okay.

For now, which seemed to be more than he could say for John or Hope at the moment. _Are they okay? No,_ he shakes the thought out of his head. _One thing at a time: Moriarty, then them._

He is escorted to a dining room with large glass windows that are designed to allow the light in (most likely bullet proof, no use trying to break them), a large, rectangular, wooden table covered in mouthwatering foods of all kinds imaginable in the breakfast category (eggs, bacon, French toast, grits, waffles, pancakes, omelets, yogurt, various fruits…), and, of course, the devil himself, Jim Moriarty smiling.

"I hope you like it," he smirks, "It's not grand or anything," his cold brown eyes sweep over Sherlock as he looks for any telltale traces of fear: he finds none. "So, see anything you like?" He asks as Sherlock approaches the chair opposite to him and sits down stiffly, his muscles still aching from sleeping on the hard cell floor.

"Cut to the chase, Moriarty—what do you want?"

"Nothing much, really…just you…dead."

"Obviously, but why? Why now, why here?"

The man laughs at that, "My, my, my Sherlock. You, angry? As if you have the right to be enrage." The smile drops only to be replaced by a cool glare that chills Sherlock to the bone, "You know, of all the things I expected of you," his voice is cold and hard, "I never expected someone on the side of the angels to do something so…dark."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up fractionally. What was he talking about? 'Dark'? What did he mean 'dark'?

Moriarty continues to talk as though Sherlock had never spoken, "Kidnapping my daughter, Sherlock?"

Surprise jolts down his spine and every muscle goes rigid.

Daughter…?

Oh. Oh, no.

The girl (not even five years old) was his daughter…! Of course! How had he not seen it? The resemblance was uncanny…the fascial expressions…her smile…that pale skin…who else could have fathered her but Moriarty?

Wait a minute…kidnapped?

"Oh, don't look so surprised Sherlock. Why else would she be at your home? Do you honestly expect me to believe that a five-year-old girl made across London, alone and relatively unharmed, to your doorstep? Your doorstep of all people's? Spare me your excuses." He rolls his eyes, "But you'll be paying soon enough—don't worry. It's not over yet."

And then a needle plunges into Sherlock's neck and the next thing he knows, he's waking up on his couch, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his head. He hears a moan and turns his head to see John holding his face in his palm.

"John!" He yells loudly, trying to sit up and weakly falling back to the sofa cushion, his mind spinning wildly about him like a dreidel on crack.

"Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, and you?"

"I'm alright," he inhales loudly, his breathe coming quickly as he hyperventilates, "And the girl, Hope? Is she…?"

Sherlock shakes his head weakly in wordless despair, knowing any attempt to locate her in their flat would be a fruitless endeavor, "She won't be here, John, trust me."

"Why?"

"Because she is Moriarty's child."

"What…?"

"John, what time is it?"

"It's midnight, Sherlock. Now, what do you mean 'Moriarty's child'? That girl? That sweet girl? No," His head shakes quickly in disbelieving denial, "That can't be right—it can't. Something is not right about this and you know it!" His voice rises slowly until rushing quickly into a full blown yell. Sherlock didn't blame him—he felt the same way. How could such a kind and innocent girl be related to such a cruel and savage monster?

"Look, John, we'll talk about more in the morning," Holmes's right hand inches up to rest on his pounding forehead. "Goodnight, John." And with that he staggers clumsily to his room and collapses on his bed from sheer exhaustion. His mouth inching into a crooked smile as his brain plunges blissfully to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Sherlock awakens five hours later with a start, his face buried firmly in a pillow. His mind, racing a mile a minute, seems to ignite sparks as he stares at the wall in front of him with deadly concentration: had the wall been a living organism, it would have fled in horror from the sight his smoldering icy blue glare concocted. If Moriarty was Hope's father…then who was the mother? He blinks, his wind palace being rummaged through frantically, papers and files getting thrown randomly across the hallways and rooms as he searches for an image the one woman he knows would have been behind this: Irene Adler, The Woman.

And they looked alike: her and the child. They both had the same papery white skin tone, the same delicate features…but what if Hope wasn't Moriarty's daughter like he seemed to think…? What if she was his, Sherlock's?

Another realm of possibilities explodes through his mind.

He and Irene had dated years ago and a child could have possibly resulted from their relationship. Irene had always left their dates early mumbling about having to meet someone. Was this why? Was she leaving him to see a murder? Leaving him to see Moriarty instead?

They had dated roughly five years ago.

Hope is around five years old.

But was it possible Moriarty was lying, playing yet another game of cat and mouse with the high-functioning sociopathic sleuth? It was possible, right? Sherlock couldn't be a dad…it was preposterous!

The room is dark and quiet save for the sound of his phone is ringing shrilling on the bed beside him. With an irritated sigh he looks at the screen: the number is blocked.

"Hello?" He answers, allowing an irritated edge to keep into his voice because he is expecting Mycroft to be on the other end. It is not Mycroft.

"Hello, Sherlock," A silky voice purrs into his ear: a voice that can only belong to the dreaded Jim Moriarty.

"Hello, Jim. Having fun are we?" He says sarcastically and, to his surprise, hears laughter on the other line.

"Now don't be like that Sherlock. Aren't you curious as to why I let you live? Why I let both you _and_ John go?"

"Not in the slightest," He lied.

Jim pretends to not hear him, "You see, Sherlock, I've been watching you, quite a lot, really." Sherlock's eyebrows turn downwards as concern watches over him, "You and Ms.…Molly Hooper seem to be spending a lot of time together lately. Going out to restaurants…going to her apartment…walks through the park." He pauses for effect, "Now don't tell me your little pet, John, is starting to domesticate you." He chuckles, his laugh cold and condemning. "There's more than way to control you. It seems I no longer have to threaten your precious little doctor."

"What do you want?"

"A blood sample."

"A blood sample? Why didn't you just take one when I was down there!"

"Because it was too easy, and where's the fun of getting my men to hold you down to acquire some DNA when you would give it freely?"

"When?"

"I'll text you the details, my dear. Oh, and Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Don't try to trick me, Sherlock." The line goes dead abruptly as Moriarty hangs up.

They meet at an abandoned warehouse. The doctors come out, decked in white with white masks obscuring their faces, showing nothing but the dead, emotionless eyes as he rolls up his sleeve with a haughty shake of head, his dark wavy hair cascading over his face. It takes only five minutes before they're pulling out the needle and walking away with about pint of his blood. He glares at their retreating footsteps for a moment before turning his gaze onto a please Moriarty.

"And now?" Sherlock asks, keeping his voice evens as he rolls his sleeve back down.

"And now you leave."

"And what? Wait until you decide to initiate the game? Wait for more bodies to be added to the cemetery?"

"Oh course."

"And the girl?"

"Who, Hope? Oh, don't worry, she's fine. For now. She's playing the part pretty well. With Hope's cooperation, I'll have her in my clutches soon enough."

"'her'? Her who?"

"Why her mother, Sherlock. Have you figured out yet who she is, yet?"

"Irene Adler."

"One and the same. Now I'm going to have to cut our visit short. Tell Molly I'll be seeing her soon. Goodbye!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys, thanks for reading to this point (you guys are truly epic). I decided to try out on touch on the Sherlolly angle some and of course some Mycroft and cake (evil laugh, I couldn't resist the temptation). Hope you enjoy and please review, thanks.**

**Chapter 9**

Molly didn't expect Sherlock to come storming through Mycroft's doors. Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting next to Molly with her bags while they waited for a cab to take them home (now that Sherlock was back, there was no need for the extra security measures). Sherlock takes one look at Mrs. Hudson and moves to wrap her quickly into his arms before holding her at arm's length and flicking his analytical gaze up and down her body to look for injuries. Satisfied, he nods to Molly, gaining a small smile from nervous, petite woman.

"So, what happened, Sherlock? Was everything alright?" Molly asks, trying in vain to contain her happiness to see him alive and well.

"Fine, yes. Everything is fine." He says quickly before waltzing past her to walk in on Mycroft, who is busily trying to brush away the cake crumbs on his shirt.

"So, Mycroft, diet going bad, then?" Sherlock smirks to himself.

Mycroft sighs, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Molly," His head turns to take her into his harsh blue gaze, "Is in danger." His eyes hold hers for a moment before, blinking; he turns back to his brother.

"And what would you have me do, pray tell?"

And then he says something that makes her heart freeze in her chest, "Whatever you can to keep her safe, Mycroft."

Mycroft may have been shocked to hear the words, but no one was more flabbergasted than Molly. Sure, they've been talking more and sharing more of each other's company…but it was always about work. They ate in a restaurant while talking about the various functions of the human body or normal vs. abnormal psychological responses to certain emotion invoking stimuli …but not dating. They conversed about his cases and such, but it's hardly like the man ever bared his soul or anything.

Their relationship was…professional.

Nothing more.

No matter how much she wished otherwise.

"I can have her moved to a see house in America by the end of the day."

"No!" Molly interjects swiftly and steps next to Sherlock. "I have my work and…" Her nerves again take control of her as the two Holmes's brothers gaze at her dispassionately, Mycroft displaying irritation as he turns back to Sherlock.

"Or not, it would seem."

"Molly, you have to go. It is too dangerous for you to stay in England." Sherlock says, his hand clenching into a fist as he imagines what James Moriarty would do to her if he were to get his beloved Molly in his grasp.

"I'm not leaving Sherlock."

"And what would you propose then?" Mycroft asks, his eyes flicking to Sherlock's for an instant before alighting back on Molly.

"Maybe I…can stay at a friend's house. Or move in with relatives… or…I don't know."

"Then move in with me." Sherlock offers.

She blinks, shocked, "What?"

"Temporarily, of course." He says quickly, "In 221B Baker Street. You could sleep on the sofa, and it would be somewhat close to your work. Perhaps, Mycroft could get some private security to go with you…to make sure you arrive safely."

She doesn't know what to do—her mind is frozen! Move in with Sherlock Holmes?! She should get in danger more often! Smiling she nods quickly, her face beginning to flush red from embarrassment, "Yes that be…" She stops herself just in time from saying 'nice'. "Acceptable," She supplements, "If it is okay with you…I don't want to be a burden or…impose."

"Well, I'll make the call for the security team, if you two and Mrs. Hudson want to go ahead and leave."

"And Lestrade?" Molly asks. "What of him?"

"He left hours ago. I assumed you had noticed."

"Oh, err, yes. Oh course…good day, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, and Mycroft?" Sherlock says, "You may want to refrigerate the remains of that chocolate cake you are hiding under the table. Too much longer in this temperature and I fear that it'll spoil." He chuckles as he jogs outside and swings gently into the cab with Molly beside him, gazing out the window, her cheeks still red.

_That is peculiar,_ he thought. _Was it something he had said?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Hope is afraid, her petrified silence once again taking control as she stares at the man she knows to be her father.

She remembers the violence, the screaming, his maniacal laughter as he pushed her mother down the stairs, daring her to even try to take his child away from him. His cold, satisfied scowl when he convinced himself that he had broken her spirit as her mother stared down at the cold marble floor, a plan already whizzing frantically through her brain in order to save her precious Hope from being hurt from by this lunatic she had made the mistake of giving her heart to.

And now she (Irene) had to pay for her sins.

Even if it cost Irene her very life.

And so she waited until nightfall before gently cradling her precious bundle to her chest and slipping outside to the unknown, knowing good and well of the pain that would inevitably befall her if she were caught. But, regardless of the agony that would come to her, she had to spare her only child.

Irene took a deep breathe, and hopped into the vehicle. Shakily putting the car into drive, she left without so much as a backward glance. To look back would be to hesitate; to hesitate would be to die.

And then something horrible had happened.

A large brown deer jumping into the road, ears flicking heavenwards in surprise.

The jerking of the wheel, the screaming of the tires.

The shattering of the windshield as they flew into a tree.

The next thing Hope knew, she was homeless, looking frantically for her mother. She wandered for days through the crowded streets of London, not once seeing a single trace of her. Then it had started to rain. Sobbing in desperation, she huddled against a trash bin in a futile effort to escape the cruel droplets as deafening thunder roared all about her.

And then a crack of light as a door opened slowly and a very concerned Mrs. Hudson was ushering her inside and she met her new family and caught her first glimpse of a better life. Hope then felt a feeling she had not felt for years: safe. She remembered curling in Sherlock's chest when she woke up in the middle of the night, crying from the lingering memory of the horror that was her life for years. She remembered him singing to her and telling her stories about princesses and being saved. Hope remembered smiling when Sherlock's bow danced across the strings of his violin. John pulling her into his arms and his laughter as he threw her lightly into the air and catching her again. Them going to the park to watch the ducks float swiftly and effortlessly across the still surface of the pond. Her running quickly from store to store with John as they picked out dresses, shirts, pants, and shoes for her to wear. And then going to the toy store where she picked out a plush panda bear with pink and white markings.

But there was none of that now. Only cruelty as Moriarty plotted to kill the first person to ever care for her.

"Where is she?" He purred.

Brown eyes glaring into her hazel ones.

She lifted her chin up in silent defiance and earned a smile from him.

"You're stubborn, you know, just like her." His smile dropped off his face, "But, apparently, not quite as wise as I am. Defiance is futile—do you know what that means, Hope? 'Futile'?" He watches her shake her head slowly and he smiles again, pleased to be teaching her something new, because that is what fathers do, right? Teach their children? "'Futile' means that it won't work, silly. No matter what you do, I will win." He glances at the clock lazily, "It is growing late. It is time for you to go to bed." He motions to a kindly and elderly butler, Alfred, who immediately moves forward to scoop the girl up into his arms and carry her to her chambers.

She falls asleep before his feet even hit the bottom step, her head cradled on his shoulder, her panda bear clutched gently to her chest.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

John looks up in surprise to see both Sherlock and Molly entering the flat but chooses not to comment on the subject at the moment, not with Molly around. Sherlock, who was carrying Molly's bag, looks at him and shrugs, "We have a guest."

"Alright, so when are you going to tell me?" John asks the moment Molly excuses herself to use the restroom.

"Tell you what, John?"

"You haven't been the same since we got back from Moriarty's. So when are you going to tell me what's up this you? Huh? First you pace like a madman for hours at a time, you eat far less often than usual, and now this? What is she doing here Sherlock? What is going on with you?"

"Hope may be my child." That stops John's tirade. This was not something he expected and listens dumbly as Sherlock continues, "Moriarty threatened to harm Molly and so she is staying here—it's temporary."

"And where will she sleep? Hm? On the floor?"

"No, John! The sofa!"

John sighs and shakes his head slowly. "Look, Sherlock. I know you liked the girl and all, but she's Moriarty's child, right? We had her for a little while, and now she is home."

"Is she? This is a man who has murdered hundreds if not thousands of people, John! And you believe that she is safe simply because he believes her to be related to him?"

"And that makes her your responsibility? You can't even take care of yourself! How long did you think it would have lasted? And what makes you think she's your child, huh? Well, go on, then!"

"Her mother is Irene Adler."

Another unexpected point.

"Oh…" Is all John can utter. The bathroom door creaks upon and both fall silent as Molly prepares to walk out.

"Not a word of this to Molly." Is the last thing Sherlock says before stalking to his bedroom and slamming the door angrily.

…

The next day, Sherlock is up before the sun has a chance to even rise. Scotland Yards is on the phone yelling about thirty people who have just been murdered. When Sherlock goes to investigate the case, with John of course, he finds they were killed just like the four men from before: strangulation, with lacerations and blood added to the scene as props.

The day after that, sixty more dead.

Then one hundred and twenty.

Something was wrong.

"Hello, Sherlock," The voice on the other line purrs: James Moriarty.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sherlock demands immediately.

"I want my daughter back, Sherlock. I'll stop the killings, but you only have a week. If she's not returned by then, well… our 'mutual friend,' Molly Hooper will not fare so well. Your time begins now, you have letter in your mailbox to help you start on the hunt. I'd find her myself, but, you know me: busy, busy, busy." He hangs up.

Hope is missing?

He feels relief and worry battling for equal representation. Relief because she had escaped his clutched, if only temporarily: worry because who knows what kind of danger she's gotten herself into? Irene must be behind it, and, luck for him, he knew exactly where to find her.

"So, where to now, Sherlock?" John asks his friend wearily.

"Now? Now go pay a visit to The Woman."

"'The woman'?"

"The Woman, woman!"

"Irene?"

"Obviously! Come on, John! We haven't a moment to waste!" They hail a cab and are speeding wildly through the streets before stopping at a large red bricked building at the bad side of town.

"She's here?"

"Why else would we stop here, John! Come on!" They race up the stairs, their lungs burning from the putrid odor of filth and stale urine that clings to the walls and floors. Sherlock pauses at a wooden door that's cracked and chipped and knocks loudly.

"Who is it?!" An irritated female's voice snaps.

"Sherlock Holmes! Open up!" The door creeks open slowly and Sherlock soon finds himself face to face with none other than Irene.

"Hello, again." John says after a moment as they continue to stare one another down. "I'm John, again."

She rips her eyes towards him and smirks, "Well, of course you are. Come on in, boys. I believe I owe you two an explanation."

"We didn't come for an explanation—we came for the girl." Sherlock says just as gunfire leaps at them, seemingly from all angles.

Irene gasps and hits the ground hard, a pool of red blossoming across her chest, blood dribbling from her mouth. Her eyes turn glassy and dull as her life slips away. John and Sherlock find themselves running into her flat, slamming the thin door behind them as a shower of bullets pursue them. Holes are punched through the flimsy wooden door as they run quickly toward the next room, taking cover behind a dirty once-white-now-brown wall.

John looks at Sherlock and pulls out his pistol and eyes the doorway. Three tall muscular men burst through the entrance way only to be mowed down immediately. Their bodies hit the ground with sickening thuds. Sherlock moves quickly to retrieve a two 9mm from one of the bodies, tosses one to John, and takes up his position across from his friend. Four more men rush in, four more bodies hit the deck.

Then…silence.

A sniffle meets Sherlock's ears and he edges cautiously towards the sound and finds Hope hiding from behind a green sofa, her shoulders trembling in fear and sorrow. John walks slowly towards the door and peeks his head into the hallway before nodding the okay to Sherlock.

The hallway is clear of enemies.

For now.

Sherlock nods back at him and scoops the little girl into his arms, her small hands clutching a small panda doll to her chest. He smiles down at her reassuringly and watches as John takes Irene's pulse. He knows that the attempt is useless, she was dead before they had even crossed the stained brown WELCOME mat in the doorway, but, still, he appreciates the effort. Together the three, Sherlock carrying Hope, edge out the building and then rush to 221B.

He still has 6 days and 22 hours to figure out what they'll do with the girl…he better start thinking now.

**Wow, I didn't expect this many readers in such a short amount of time (awesome!). I guess I'll have to update more often (but, alas, school will be upon me starting the end of next week ****L****; so, production may slow to a trickle, but I'll try my best). ****Thanks to everyone who reviewed-you've been incredible.**

**And, Israel, _hang in there!_ Don't give up! I'm rooting for you guys all the way! Just don't loose hope!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Yo, hope you guys like this chapter (sorry it took so long to add it-had writers block)! There's a bit of Sherlolly, but, don't worry, nothing inappropriate. **

**Well, enjoy and tell me how you like it.**

**Chapter 12**

Hope sits in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen gnawing on chocolate chip cookies while Sherlock and John talk upstairs.

…

"Now what, mate?" John asks from his chair as he watches Sherlock pacing furiously about the room.

"I don't know." Sherlock snaps quickly, his speed picking up.

"Maybe we should call Mycroft."

"Mycroft! No, John! There's has to be another way! Anything but getting him involved; he'll gloat over it and hang it over my head for years! I'll never hear the end of it, John!"

"Well, do you have a better idea?" He snaps, "We have a little girl downstairs and her 'father' will tear London apart for her! We return her and we may as well throw her on the front lines; we keep her here and London burns, Sherlock! Is it really so bad to ignore your pride for a moment—one moment—and think of someone else? Just for once?"

He freezes mid-step, his blue eyes swerving to freeze John in his icy glare, "And just what would he propose?" He growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Please, John, tell me exactly what you have planned to save her! What brilliant idea," His voice is thick with sarcasm, "have you concocted?"

John sighs and balls his hands into fists in his frustration. "We get Mycroft. He gets a safe house or whatever and…we just…wait it out."

"Fine." He rolls his eyes, "Do, please, call him." He turns and walks downstairs. His hands shake slightly out of fear of what he knows will happen. Moriarty will be furious, of course. He'll destroy anything and everything in his attempt to once again obtain his new toy. Hundreds of people would be slaughtered in the aftermath of his rage while he and Sherlock play The Game. He won't be able to shield Hope from her father; he won't even be able to save himself! And who is Moriarty to decide who gets to live and who gets to die?

But why does he even care?

She's Moriarty's child—the child of a homicidal lunatic! If she was Sherlock's Irene would have told him about her…right?

And besides, logically, why does it matter if one child perishes?

What is one girl's life to hundreds of others? Who is he to weigh the value of one person against the value of so many possible others?

…

He pauses in the doorway of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and sees the girl with Chocolate all over her face and Mrs. Hudson cackling loudly with delight at the child's large smile.

"Oh, I missed you!" The old woman drawls the small child into her arms and holds her lovingly in her tight embrace.

Hope giggles and squirms even closer to her, "And I missed you!"

Sherlock smiles a little at the scene, his fear for her and his country vanishing in that heartwarming moment.

…

He carries her upstairs, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder, her warm breath blanketing his neck. Molly smiles at him as he carries her to the living room where had lovingly made up a pallet of blankets for Hope to lie on. Gently, he places her on the blankets and covers her up with a red quilt Mrs. Hudson had donated to the cause. Molly smiles at him, a loving warmth burning in her eyes.

"She's adorable." She whispers, "Looks just like an angle," another blinding smile, "just missing the halo, right, Sherlock?"

He smiles and nods to her, "If angels did in fact exist…" He swallows nervously and stands back up suddenly, "But…I see your meaning, yes. She's very cute." He nods briskly.

"Would you like to go out? To get a cup of coffee?" She asks him timidly, "Just as friends, of course," She hastily adds as her face turns scarlet.

His pale blue eyes flick back to the sleeping form on the floor before sweeping back up to look at Molly. "That would be nice."

…

They go to a small diner a block or two away and order their own respective drinks. Their laughter echoes to the room as he tells her of his more humorous cases and Molly beams and giggles loudly as she listens. Just once his hand falls on hers, his slender long slender fingers resting on hers. Neither one says a word as they stare into the other's eyes, their faces slowly turning red before they edge their hands back to their own respective sides of the table.

But they never stop smiling.

Finally, they leave and walk out into the chilled night air. Above the stares twinkle down at them brightly as though laughing at some hidden and unseen inside joke. While they walk Sherlock gently slips Molly's hand into his own, keeping his eyes forward as they stroll homewards. To his surprise, she doesn't jerk away: she tightens her hold while also looking anywhere but at him. The two continue to laugh and smile: Sherlock's scarf wrapped tightly about his neck, his coat collar turned up to make him look more mysterious and cool; Molly's red shirt rippling in the cool breeze.

He picks her a bright red rose to complement the shirt and tucks it carefully behind her ear after reclaiming his hand and dutifully ripping off all of the thorns. His hand grazes her ear and lingers softly on her cheek.

Their eyes meet and a spark of electricity seems to ignite the night.

She closes her eyes.

He leans downwards.

Their lips touch.

The wind sends tendrils of their hair flying in the breeze and they pull back lightly to smile at each other before once again holding hands and walking back towards 221B.


	13. Chapter 13

**Congratulations: you have now made it to the last and final chapter. Now, you are truly awesome.**

**Chapter 13**

_Their week was up_, Moriarty thought ruefully.

_It's time for London to burn._

**… ****Switches to Sherlock's POV (Point O'view) here …**

Mycroft had used his vast resources to locate Moriarty's mansion. They were not, he had reassured Sherlock, taking up position outside. The moment Moriarty moved to come out he would be apprehended by London's finest.

Only, it didn't work that way.

But when dealing with Moriarty, Sherlock knew, things hardly ever went exactly according to plan. Something always went wrong or was miscalculated…and then it fell apart.

Always.

So, when a cherry red Ferrari explodes out of the house and its tires squeal loudly as someone, Moriarty, slams on the ignition, throwing up a large pillar of white dust as he speed frantically away, Sherlock isn't surprised in the least. The officers open fire on the vehicle, but its armor is impenetrable, wielding their efforts redundant. The bullets bounce off the windows and body of the car, scrapping the paint but doing no severe damage. Mycroft sighs in silent frustration and shakes his head slowly.

"This won't be the end of it, Sherlock," He says softly and twists his face into a pained and tight smile. Mycroft turns his attention away from his wavy headed brother and speaks into his cell phone, "Secondary units, follow and stop that vehicle—use force if necessary."

"And you think that will work?" Sherlock growls scornfully. "If these police officers couldn't stop him, what makes you think a new batch will, Mycroft?"

"I never said that the Secondary units were with the police, Sherlock." He says softly as a rueful grin settles on his features. "And, trust me, Sherlock, they will stop him." The smile vanishes, "One way or another."

**…**

A helicopter flied overhead, keeping a bright beam of light on the speeding car as it races wildly across the road. The driver had to be crazy to be driving like that! If he takes the turns any faster, he'll flip the car!

But he doesn't.

The car goes faster. And faster. A red blur on the black asphalt. Up ahead there is movement as a large and clumsy vehicle moves into his way: a tank. It turns slowly, a missile being loaded into the chamber. Brakes are deployed and, too late, the Ferrari jerks madly to the side just as the missile ignites the vehicle in a blaze of fire. Black smoke curls into the inky black sky as a testament to the now deceased driver.

**…****2 months later…**

Sherlock and Molly are at the park, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson to "spoil, no I mean 'babysit'' Hope, as Mrs. Hudson has so kindly put it. Sherlock had given her a mock look of shock before smiling at the gentle old woman and hugging her lightly. John merely smiles and shook his head. It still amazed John sometimes, how Sherlock could be so human and caring towards the ones he truly cared about.

Right now Sherlock and Molly are sitting quietly on a park bench as they watch ducks swim in the darkened pond. Up above the stars shining down brightly and dance for the young couple. Sherlock looks at Molly for a moment before dropping down lightly to one knee. Molly starts, her eyes going wide with surprise and confusion.

"Sherlock…? What are you…?"

"Molly Hooper." He says lightly, a nervous smile etching into his features, "Will you marry me?" He pulls a ring out of his pocket and she gasps loudly.

"Yes, Sherlock!" Euphoric tears roll down her face. "Oh, course I will!"

**…**

The wedding had been small, with only their closest friends and family members attending, and to Sherlock's displeasure, Mycroft was invited. The service was short and to the point, just as Sherlock had wanted it. John had been his best man and Molly had invited some of her female colleagues from uni to be brides maids.

And Hope, dear little Hope, was the flower girl. She skipped lightly down the aisle ahead of Molly and threw soft pink rose petals into the air, their fragrant perfume sifting through the air. Upon reaching the end of the aisle she turned and sat down dutifully beside Mrs. Hudson who smiles gleefully at the young girl's exited energy and wrapped a frail wrinkled, arm around her shoulders with a quiet, "Shh! It's starting!"

They looked deep into each other's eyes and said their vows.

Lestrade gave a loud whoop of joy as they leaned forward to share a kiss once the elderly preacher had said, "You may now kiss the bride."

John had moved out a week ago upon meeting someone he had called, 'Marry'. As it turns out, in a month, it'll be Sherlock's turn to be the best man for John. And Sherlock had yet to tell John of the growing bump on Molly's stomach that whispered of another family member who would be joining them in months to come: a sibling for Hope.

Mycroft had made a few calls and, turns out, Hope actually was Moriarty's biological child, but that didn't stop Sherlock from adopting her to make her a permanent resident of 221B. Mrs. Hudson had been ecstatic and had a baked a cake for the day the adoption had been finalized. Lestrade, John and his wife-to-be, Mary had invaded their flat to throw a party and lavish the new Holmes with gifts.

**…**

And, on the other side the street, a man with brown eyes and a soft voice watched the preceding through the open window. His mouth curled into a snakelike grin as he turned and walk away slowly.

_Enjoy you fun while you can,_ _Sherlock,_ Moriarty thought.

_Because I'll be back._


End file.
